The Street Lawyer 6 страница

I chose a different elevator from Mister’s. He was history; I shut him out of my mind. I did not look at the conference room where he died. I threw my briefcase and coat on a chair in my office and went for coffee. Bouncing down the hallway before six in the morning, speaking to a colleague here, a clerk there, removing my jacket, rolling up my sleeves it was great to be back.

I scanned The Wall Street Journal first, partly because I knew it would have nothing to do with dying street people in D. C. Then, the Post. On the front page of the Metro section, there was a small story about Lontae Burton’s family, with a photo of her grandmother weeping outside an apartment building. I read it, then put it aside. I knew more than the reporter, and I was determined not to be distracted.

Under the Post was a plain manila legal-sized file, the kind our firm used by the millions. It was unmarked, and that made it suspicious. It was just lying there, exposed, on the center of my desk, placed there by some anonymous person. I opened it slowly.

There were only two sheets of paper inside. The first was a copy of yesterday’s story in the Post, the same one I’d read ten times and shown to Claire last night. Under it was a copy of something lifted from an official Drake & Sweeney file. The heading read: EWCTEES-RIVERO,MKS/TAG, INC.

The left-hand column contained the numbers one through seventeen. Number four was DeVon Hardy. Number fifteen read: Lontae Burton, and three or four children.

I slowly laid the file on the desk, stood and walked to the door, locked it, then leaned on it. The first couple of minutes passed in absolute silence. I stared at the file in tile center of the desk. I had to assume it was true and accurate. Why would anyone fabricate such a thing? Then I picked it up again, carefully. Under the second sheet of paper, on the inside of the file itself, my anonymous informant had scribbled with a pencil: The eviction was legally and ethically wrong.

It was printed in block letters, in an effort to avoid detection should I have it analyzed. The markings were faint, the lead hardly touching the file.

I KEPT THE DOOR LOCKED for an hour, during which time I took turns standing at the window watching the sunrise and sitting at my desk staring at the file. The traffic increased in the hallway, and then I heard Polly’s voice. I unlocked the door, greeted her as if everything was swell, and proceeded to go through the motions.

The morning was packed with meetings and conferences, two of them with Rudolph and clients. I performed adequately, though I couldn’t remember anything we said or did. Rudolph was so proud to have his star back at full throttle.

I was almost rude to those who wanted to chat about the hostage crisis and its aftershocks. I appeared to be the same, and I was my usual hard-charging self, so the concerns about my stability vanished. Late in the morning, my’ father called. I could not remember the last time he’d called me at the office. He said it was raining in Memphis; he was sitting around the house, bored, and, well, he and my mother were worried about me. Claire was fine, I explained; then to find safe ground, I told him about her brother James, a person he had met once, at the wedding. I sounded properly concerned about Claire’s family, and that pleased him.

Dad was just happy to reach me at the office. I was still there, making the big money, going after more. He asked me to keep in touch.

Half an hour later, my brother Warner called from his office, high above downtown Atlanta. He was six years older, a partner in another megafirm, a no-holds-barred litigator. Because of the age difference, Warner and I had never been close as kids, but we enjoyed each other’s company. During his divorce three years earlier, he had confided in me weekly.

He was on the clock, same as I, so I knew the conversation would be brief. “Talked m Dad,” he said. “He told me everything.” “I’m sure he did.”

“I understand how you feel. We all go through it. You work hard, make the big money, never stop to help the little people. Then something happens, and you think back to law school, back to the first year, when we were full of ideals and wanted to use our law degrees to save humanity. Remember that?” “Yes. A long time ago.”

“Right. During my first year of law school, they took a survey. Over half my class wanted to do public interest law. When we graduated three years later, everybody went for the money. I don’t know what happened.”

“Law school makes you greedy.”

“I suppose. Our firm has a program where you can take a year off, sort of a sabbatical, and do public interest law. After twelve months, you return as if you never left. You guys do anything like that?”

rmtage Warner. I had a problem, he already had the solution. Nice and neat. Twelve months, I’m a new man. A quick demur, but my future is secure.

“Not for associates,” I said. “I’ve heard of a partner or two leaving m work for this administration or that one, then returning after a couple of years. But never an associate.”

“But your circumstances are different. You’ve been traumatized, damned near killed simply because you were a member of the firm. I’d throw my weight around some, tell ‘em you need time off. Take a year, then get your ass back to the office.”

“It might work,” I said, trying to placate him. He was a type A personality, pushy as hell, always one word away from an argument, especially with the family. “I gotta run,”! said. So did he. We promised to talk more later.

Lunch was with Rudolph and a client at a splendid restaurant. It was called a working lunch, which meant we abstained from alcohol, which also meant we would bill the client for the time. Rudolph went for four hundred an hour, me for three hundred. We worked and ate for two hours, so the lunch cost the client fourteen hundred dollars. Our firm had an account with the restaurant, so it would be billed to Drake & Sweeney, and somewhere along the way our bean counters in the basement would find a way to bill the client for the cost of the food as well.

The afternoon was nonstop calls and conferences. Through sheer willpower, I kept my game face and got through it, billing heavily as I went. Antitrust law had never seemed so hopelessly dense and boring.

It was almost five before I found a few minutes alone. I said good-bye to Polly, and locked the door again. I opened the mysterious file and began making random notes on a legal pad, scribblings and flowcharts with arrows striking RiverOaks and Drake & Sweeney from all directions. Braden Chance, the real estate partner

I’d confronted about the file, took most of the shots for the firm.

My principal suspect was his paralegal, the young man who had heard our sharp words, and who, seconds later, had referred to Chance as an “ass” when I was leaving their suite. He would know the details of the eviction, and he would have access to the file.

With a pocket phone to avoid any D&S records, I called a paralegal in antitrust. His office was around the corner from mine. He referred me to another, and with little effort I learned that the guy I wanted was Hector Palma. He’d been with the firm about three years, all in real estate. I planned to track him down, but outside the office.

Mordecai called. He inquired about my dinner plans for the evening. “I’ll treat,” he said. “Soup?”

He laughed. “Of course not. I know an excellent place.”

We agreed to meet at seven. Claire was back in her surgeon’s mode, oblivious to time, meals, or husband. She had checked in mid-afternoon, just a quick word on the run. Had no idea when she might be home, but very late. For dinner, every man for himself. I didn’t hold it against her. She had learned the fast-track life-style from me.

WE MET at a restaurant near Dupont Circle. The bar at the front was packed with well-paid government types having a drink before fleeing the city. We had a drink in the back, in a tight booth.

“The Burton story is big and getting bigger,” he said, sipping a draft beer.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been in a cave for the past twelve hours. What’s happened?”

“Lots of press. Four dead kids and their momma, living in a car. They find them a mile from Capitol Hill, where they’re in the process of reforming welfare to send more mothers into the streets. It’s beautiful.”

“So the funeral should be quite a show.”

“No doubt. I’ve talked to a dozen homeless activists today. They’ll be there, and they’re planning to bring their people with them. The place will be packed with street people. Again, lots of press. Four litde coffins next to their mother’s, cameras catching it all for the six o’clock news. We’re having a rally before and a march afterward.”

“Maybe something good will come from their deaths.”

“Maybe.”

As a seasoned big-city lawyer, I knew there was a purpose behind every lunch and dinner invitation. Mordecai had something on his mind. I could tell by the way his eyes followed mine.

“Any idea why they were homeless?” I asked, fishing.

“No. Probably the usual. I haven’t had time to ask questions.”

Driving over, I had decided that I could not tell him about the mysterious file and its contents. It was confidential, known to me only because of my position at Drake & Sweeney. To reveal what I had learned about the activities of a client would be an egregious breach of professional responsibility. The thought of divulging it scared me. Plus,! had not verified anything.

The waiter brought salads, and we began eating. “We had a firm meeting this afternoon,” Mordecai said between bites. “Me, Abraham, Sofia. We need some help.”

I was not surprised to hear that. “What kind of help?”

“Another lawyer.”

“I thought you were broke.”

“We keep a little reserve. And we’ve adopted a new marketing strategy.”

The idea of the 14th Street Legal Clinic worried about a marketing strategy was humorous, and that was what he intended. We both smiled.

“If we could get the new lawyer to spend ten hours a week raising money, then he could afford himself.”

Another series of smiles.

He continued. “As much as we hate to admit it, our survival will depend on our ability to raise money. The Cohen Trust is declining. We’ve had the luxury of not begging, but now it’s gotta change.” “What’s the rest of the job?”

“Street law. You’ve had a good dose of it. You’ve seen our place. It’s a dump. Sofia’s a shrew. Abraham’s an ass. The clients smell bad, and the money is a joke.”

“How much money?”

“We can offer you thirty thousand a year, but we can only promise you half of it for the first sLx months.”

“Why?”

“The trust closes its books June thirtieth, at which time they’ll tell us how much we get for the next fiscal year, beginning July first. We have enough in reserve to pay you for the next six months. After that, the four of us will split what’s left after expenses.”

“Abraham and Sofia agreed to this?”

“Yep, after a little speech by me. We figure you have good contacts within the established bar, and since you’re well educated, nice-looking, bright, and all that crap, you should be a natural at raising money.”

“What if I don’t want to raise money?”

“Then the four of us could lower our salaries even more, perhaps go to twenty thousand a year. Then to fifteen. And when the trust dries up, we could hit the streets, just like our clients. Homeless lawyers.”

“So I’m the future of the 14th Street Legal Clinic?”

“That’s what we decided. We’ll take you in as a full partner. Let’s see Drake & Sweeney top that.”

“I’m touched,” I said. I was also a bit frightened. The job offer was not unexpected, but its arrival opened a door I was hesitant to walk through.

Black bean soup arrived, and we ordered more beer.

“What’s Abraham’s story?” I asked.

“Jewish kid from Brooklyn. Came to Washington to work on Senator Moynihan’s staff. Spent a few years on the Hill, landed on the street. Extremely bright. He spends most of his time coordinating litigation with pro bono lawyers from big firms. Right now he’s suing the Census Bureau to be certain the homeless get counted. And he’s suing the D. C. school system to make sure homeless kids get an education. His people skills leave a lot to be desired, but he’s great in the back room plotting litigation.” “And Sofia?”

“A career social worker who’s been taking night classes in law school for eleven years. She acts and thinks like a lawyer, especially when she’s abusing government workers. You’ll hear her say, ‘This is Sofia Mendoza, Attorney-at-Law,’ ten times a day.”

“She’s also the secretary?”

“Nope. We don’t have secretaries. You do your own typing, filing, coffee making.” He leaned forward a few inches, and lowered his voice. “The three of us have been together for a long time, Michael, and we’ve carved out little niches. To be honest, we need a fresh face with some new ideas.”

“The money is certainly appealing,” I said, a weak effort at humor.

He grinned anyway. “You don’t do it for the money. You do it for your soul.”

MY SOUL kept me awake most of the night. Did I have the guts to walk away? Was I seriously considering taking a job which paid so little? I was literally saying good-bye to millions.

The things and possessions I longed for would become fading memories.

The timing wasn’t bad. With the marriage over, it somehow seemed fitting that I make drastic changes on all fronts.

TWELVE

I CALLED IN SICK Tuesday. “Probably the flu,” I told polly, who, as she was trained to do, wanted specifics. Fever, sore throat, headaches? All of the above. Any and all, I didn’t care. One had better be completely sick to miss work at the firm. She would do a form and send it to Rudolph. Anticipating his call, I left the apartment and wandered around Georgetown during the early morning. The snow was melting fast; the high would be in the fifties. I killed an hour loitering along Washington Harbor, sampling cappuccino from a number of vendors, watching the rowers freeze on the Potomac.

At ten, I left for the funeral.

THE SIDEWALK in front of the church was barricaded. Cops were standing around, their motorcycles parked on the street. Farther down were the television vails.

A large crowd was listening to a speaker yell into a microphone as I drove by, There were a few hastily painted placards held above heads, for the benefit of the cameras. I parked on a side street three Mocks away, and hurried toward the church. I avoided the front by heading for a side door, which was being guarded by an elderly usher. I asked if there was a balcony. He asked if I was a reporter.

He took me inside, and pointed to a door. I thanked him and went through it, then up a flight of shaky stairs until I emerged on the balcony overlooking a beautiful sanctuary below. The carpet was burgundy, the pews dark wood, the windows stained and dean. It was a very handsome church, and for a second I could understand why the Reverend was reluctant to open it to the homeless.

I was alone, with my choice of seating. I walked quietly to a spot above the rear door, with a direct view down the center aisle to the pulpit. A choir began singing outside on the front steps, and I sat in the tranquillity of the empty church, the music drifting in.

The music stopped, the doors opened, the stampede began. The balcony floor shook as the mourners poured into the sanctuary. The choir took its place behind the pulpit. The Reverend directed traffic—the TV crews in one corner, the small family in the front pew, the activists and their homeless down the center section. Mordecai ambled in with two people I didn’t know. A door to one side opened, and the prisoners marched out—Lontae’s mother and two brothers, clad in blue prison garb, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, chained together and escorted by four armed guards. They were placed in the second pew, center aisle, behind the grandmother and some other relatives.

When things were still, the organ began, low and sad. There was a racket under me, and all heads turned around. The Reverend assumed the pulpit and instructed us to stand.

Ushers with white gloves rolled the wooden coffins down the aisle, and lined them end to end across the front of the church with L0ntae’s in the center. The baby’s was tiny, less than three feet long. Ontario’s, Alonzo’s, and Dante’s were midsized. It was an appalling sight, and the wailing began. The choir started to hum and sway.

The ushers arranged flowers around the caskets, and I thought for one horrifying second they were going to open them. I had never been to a black funeral before. I had no idea what to expect, but I had seen news clips from other funerals in which the casket was sometimes opened, the family kissing the corpse. The vultures with the cameras were ever ready.

But the caskets remained closed, and so the world didn’t learn what I knew—that Ontario and family looked very much at peace.

We sat down, and the Reverend served up a lengthy prayer. Then a solo from sister somebody, then moments of silence. The Reverend read Scripture, and preached for a bit. He was followed by a homeless activist who delivered a scathing attack on a society and its leaders who allowed such a thing to happen. She blamed Congress, especially the Republicans, and she blamed the city for its lack of leadership, and the courts, and the bureaucracy. But she saved her harshest diatribe for the upper classes, those with money and power who didn’t care for the poor and the sick. She was articulate and angry, very effective, I thought, but not exactly at home at a funeral.

They clapped for her when she finished. The Reverend then spent a very long time blasting everyone who wasn’t of color and had money.

A solo, some more Scripture, then the choir launched into a soulful hymn that made me want to cry. A procession formed to lay hands upon the dead, but it quickly broke down as the mourners began wailing and rubbing the caskets. “Open them up,” someone screamed, but the Reverend shook his head no. They bunched toward the pulpit, crowding around the caskets, yelling and sobbing as the choir cranked it up several notches. The grandmother was the loudest, and she was stroked and soothed by the others.

I couldn’t believe it. Where were these people during the last months of Lontae’s life? Those little bodies lying up there in boxes had never known so much love.

The cameras inched closer as more and more mourners broke down. It was more of a show than anything else.

The Reverend finally stepped in and restored order. He prayed again with organ music in the background. When he finished, a long dismissal began as the people paraded by the caskets one last time.

The service lasted an hour and a half. For two thousand bucks, it wasn’t a bad production. I was proud of it.

They rallied again outside, and began a march in the general direction of Capitol I-fill. Mordecai was in the middle of it, and as they disappeared around a corner, I wondered how many marches and demonstrations he had been in. Not enough, he would probably answer.

RUDOLPH MAYES had become a partner at Drake & Sweeney at the age of thirty, still a record. And if life continued as he planned, he would one day be the oldest working partner. The law was his life, as his three former wives could attest. Everything else he touched was disastrous, but Rudolph was the consummate bigfirm team player.

He was waiting for me at 6 P. M. in his office behind a pile of work. Polly and the secretaries were gone, as were most of the paralegals and clerks. The hall traffic slowed considerably after five-thirty.

I closed the door, sat down. “Thought you were sick,” he said.

“I’m leaving, Rudolph,” I said as boldly as I could, but my stomach was in knots.

He shoved books out of the way, and put the cap on his expensive pen. “I’m listening.”

“I’m leaving the firm. I have an offer to work for a public interest firm.”

“Don’t be stupid, Michael.”

“I’m not being stupid. I’ve made up my mind. And I want out of here with as little trouble as possible.”

“You’ll be a partner in three years.”

“I’ve found a better deal than that.”

He couldn’t think of a response, so he rolled his eyes in frustration. “Come on, Mike. You can’t crack up over one incident.”

“I’m not cracking up, Rudolph. I’m simply moving into another field.” “None of the other eight hostages are doing this.” “Good for them. If they’re happy, then I’m happy for them. Besides, they’re in litigation, a strange breed.”

“Where are you going?”

“A legal clinic near Logan Circle. It specializes in homeless law.”

“Homeless law?”

“Yep.”

“How much are they paying you?”

“A bloody fortune. Wanna make a donation to the clinic?”

“You’re losing your mind.”

“Just a little crisis, Rudolph. I’m only thirty-two, too young for the midlife crazies. I figure I’ll get mine over with early.”

“Take a month off. Go work with the homeless, get it out of your system, then come back. This is a terrible time to leave, Mike. You know how far behind we are.”

“Won’t work, Rudolph. It’s no fun if there’s a safety net.”

“Fun? You’re doing this for fun?”

“Absolutely. Think how much fun it would be to work without looking at a time clock.”

“What about Claire?” he asked, revealing the depths of his desperation. He hardly knew her, and he was the least qualified person in the firm to dispense marital advice.

“She’s okay,” I said. “I’d like to leave Friday.”

He grunted in defeat. He closed his eyes, slowly shook his head. “I don’t believe this.” “I’m sorry, Rudolph.”

We shook hands and promised to meet for an early breakfast to discuss my unfinished work.

I didn’t want Polly to hear it secondhand, so I went to my office and called her. She was at home in Arlington, cooking dinner. It ruined her week.

I picked up Thai food and took it home. I chilled some wine, fixed the table, and began rehearsing my lines.

IF CLAIRE suspected an ambush, it wasn’t evident. Over the years we had developed the habit of simply ignoring each other, as opposed to fighting. Therefore, our tactics were unrefined.

But I liked the idea of a blindside, of being thoroughly prepared with the shock, then ready with the quips. I thought it would be nice and unfair, completely acceptable within the confines of a crumbling marriage.

It was almost ten; she had eaten on the run hours earlier, so we went straight to the den with glasses of wine. I stoked the fire and we settled into our favorite chairs. After a few minutes I said, “We need to talk.”

“What is it?” she asked, completely unworried.

“I’m thinking of leaving Drake & Sweeney.”

“Oh really.” She took a drink. I admired her coolness. She either expected this or wanted to seem unconcerned.

“Yes. I can’t go back there.”

“Why not?”

“I’m ready for a change. The corporate work is suddenly boring and unimportant, and I want to do something to help people.”

“That’s nice.” She was already thinking about the money, and I was anxious to see how long it would take to get around to it. “In fact, that’s very admirable, Michael.”

“I told you about Mordecai Green. His clinic has offered me a job. I’m starting Monday.”

“Monday?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve made your decision already.”

“Yes.”

“Without any discussion with me. I have no say in the matter, is that right?”

“I can’t go back to the firm, Claire. I told Rudolph today.”

Another sip, a slight grinding of file teeth, a flash of anger but she let it pass. Her self-control was amazing.

We watched the fire, hypnotized by the orange flames. She spoke next. “Can I ask what this does for us financially?”

“It changes things.”

“How much is the new salary?”

“Thirty thousand a year.”

“Thirty thousand a year,” she repeated. Then she said it again, somehow making it sound even lower. “That’s less than what I make.”

Her salary was thirty-one thousand, a figure that would increase dramatically in the years to come-serious money was not far away. For purposes of the discussion, I planned to have no sympathy for any whining about money.

“You don’t do public interest law for the money,” I said, trying not to sound pious. “As I recall, you didn’t go to med school for the money.”

Like every med student in the country, she had begun her studies vowing that money was not the attraction. She wanted to help humanity. Same for law students. We all lied.

She watched the fire and did the math. I guessed she was probably thinking about the rent. It was a very nice apartment; at twenty-four hundred a month it should’ve been even nicer. The furnishings were adequate. We were proud of where we lived—right address, beautiful rowhouse, swanky neighborhood—but we spent so litde time there. And we seldom entertained. Moving would be an adjustment, but we could endure it.

We had always been open about our finances; nothing was hidden. She knew we had around fifty-one thousand dollars in mutual funds, and twelve thousand in the checking account. I was amazed at how litde we’d saved in six years of marriage. When you’re on the fast track at a big firm, the money seems endless.

“I guess we’ll have to make adjustments, won’t we?” she said, staring coldly at me. The word “adjustments” was dripping with connotations. “I suppose so.”

“I’m tired,” she said. She drained her glass, and went to the bedroom.

How pathetic, I thought. We couldn’t even muster enough rancor to have a decent fight.

Of course, I fully realized my new status in life. I was a wonderful story—ambitious young lawyer transformed into an advocate for the poor; turns back on blue-chip firm to work for nothing. Even though she thought I was losing my mind, Claire had found it hard to criticize a saint.

I put a log on the fire, fixed another drink, and slept on the sofa.

THIRTEEN

THE PARTNERS had a private dining room on the eighth floor, and it was supposed to be an honor for an associate to eat there. Rudolph was the sort of klutz who would think that a bowl of Irish oatmeal at 7 A. M. in their special room would help return me to my senses. How could I turn my back on a future filled with power breakfasts?

He had exciting news. He’d spoken with Arthur late the night before and there was in the works a proposal to grant me a twelve-month sabbatical. The firm would supplement whatever salary the clinic paid. It was a worthy cause, they should do more to protect the rights of the poor. I would be treated as the firm’s designated pro bono boy for an entire year, and they could all feel good about themselves. I would return with my batteries recharged, my other interests quelled, my talents once again directed to the glory of Drake & Sweeney.

I was impressed and touched by the idea, and I could not simply dismiss it. I promised him I would think about it, and quickly. He cautioned that it would have to be approved by the executive committee since I was not a partner. The firm had never considered such a leave for an associate.

Rudolph was desperate for me to stay, and it had little to do with friendship. Our antitrust division was logjammed with work, and we needed at least two more senior associates with my experience. It was a terrible time for me to leave, but I didn’t care. The firm had eight hundred lawyers. They would find the bodies they needed.

The year before I had billed just under seven hundred fifty thousand dollars. That was why I was eating breakfast in their fancy little room, and listening to their urgent plans to keep me. It also made sense to take my annual salary, throw it at the homeless or any charity I wished, for that matter, then entice me back after one year.

Once he finished with the idea of the sabbatical, we proceeded to review the most pressing matters m my office. We were listing things to do when Braden Chance sat at a table not far from ours. He didn’t see me at first. There were a dozen or so partners eating, most alone, most deep in the morning papers. I tried to ignore him, but I finally looked over and caught him glaring at me.

“Good morning, Braden,” I said loudly, startling him and causing Rudolph to jerk around to see who it was. Chance nodded, said nothing, and suddenly became involved with some toast. “You know him?” Rudolph asked, under his breath. “We’ve met,” I said. During our brief encounter in his office, Chance had demanded the name of my supervising partner. I’d given him Rudolph’s name. It was obvious he had not lodged any complaints.

“An ass,” Rudolph said, barely audible. It was unanimous. He flipped a page, immediately forgot about Chance, and plowed ahead. There was a lot of unfinished work in my office.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16